After a great many years of engagement in other business activities, we’ve finally decided to enter the TV advertising field, having become duly inspired by the never-ending parade of commercial messages we see every day ad nauseam -- especially those extolling the health-enhancing qualities available from all those grand and glorious pharmaceutical products on the market. Accordingly, we plan to submit the following script to a suitable agency.
Fade in to a rugged-looking man in his late 40s or early 50s, standing outside and wearing conventional work clothes, as he utters his words of endorsement:
“I used to be a real wilting violet on the job I’m employed to carry out. Then one day,
my doctor recommended Spoofia. Ever since I started taking it on a regular basis,
I’ve been able to handle the heavy needs related to my work performance much
more effectively. In fact, so much of the energy I’d lost has returned to a point
where I can now hold my own with all my colleagues.”
Fadeout to a new scene of an elderly lady moving about in her living room and attending to odd chores as she speaks:
“Before taking Spoofia, I never felt like doing anything but sit around the house.
That has all changed, now that I’m using it every day. I’m always eager to get out
and do my shopping, tend to my gardening, and keep my home in shipshape order –
and I never stop feeling great around the clock. I heartily recommend Spoofia for
everybody.”
Fadeout, followed by several sequential shots of the man at work and the lady attending to various shopping, gardening, or household chores, as the background announcer carries on:
“You’ll make no mistake with Spoofia, a thoroughly-tested pharmaceutical product
recommended by leading doctors from coast to coast. Your buildup to restored
healthfulness and energetic vitality will be a certainty once you begin the requisite
daily dosage.”
(Speaking a bit more rapidly, and in a milder tone)
“Side effects from using Spoofia might include post-nasal drip, occasional vomiting
without advance warning, hiccoughs, and poison ivy. If your teeth begin to fall out
one-by-one, stop taking Spoofia and see your doctor.”
At approximate midpoint in the above background announcer’s spiel, the following text to appear at the bottom of the screen, then disappear after only a second:
Spoofia may be health-hazardous or even fatal if you had measles as a child, or
have ever smoked cigars.
Closing remarks by the background announcer, still at a fairly rapid pace and quite softly in tone:
“If after taking Spoofia, you begin having dreams that you are King Kong, and wake
up with an urge to climb the Empire State Building, check with your doctor right
away.
(Now in a much louder voice)
“Don’t wait to call the 800 number on your screen. If you phone RIGHT NOW, you’ll
be eligible for our limited offer to receive the opening one week’s supply for only
$19.95 (more rapidly and low tone once again) plusshippingandhandling. (Back to a
slower rate and louder tone) And remember, Spoofia is bound to fix your wagon –
but good!!!”
Fadeout
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
TOUCHING UP OUR ENGLISH JUST A TAD
Any person who has attended elementary and high school will recall exposure to an annual parade of English language teachers, whose task was to ensure that the students would spend their adult lives speaking in a flawless manner. Despite such devoted effort, upon hearing today’s ordinary street dialogue, and even radio or television utterances, it’s obvious how miserably they’ve all failed.
This writer was somehow blessed with the surprising ability to remember every single grammatical rule thrown at him and his classmates throughout the lengthy ordeal. Although not the world’s most magnificent natural endowment, such condition has never gone unappreciated. Unhappily, we’ve found this to be far from the case with a substantial majority of our native populace.
Not a single conversation-listening or TV-watching day goes by without our being forced to grimace slightly over a deluge of fundamental speech errors. They range from frightful down to relatively minor, and are all in conflict with the explicit schoolroom instructions put forth by every Miss or Sister Pruneface seated up front.
The oral butchery we encounter on the street, with its rash of double negatives, wrong pronouns, incorrect verb forms, improper noun or adjective selection, misused prepositions, and the like might as well be summarily ignored. Such constant and uncontrollably misguided output is best written off, as would be a bad loan to your shiftless brother-in-law. They add up to sheer hopelessness, with no solution in sight.
However, what we view as the prime correctible sins are those committed by that vast array of persons whose livings are earned by addressing the public on a daily basis. Television, which holds predominance in our modern media world, is therefore the chief source of our private dilemma.
News and sports announcers, political pundits, talk show hosts, commercial message blabbers, and even congressmen are often heard uttering vocal errors, in what we may fittingly call benign disdain for those dedicated English teachers who once strove so valiantly on their behalves.
If a reader should choose to challenge any point we cover below regarding basic rules, our response will be either to “look it up” or else “go consult an English teacher”. Unfortunately though, following this latter route may prove fruitless, since we’ve had a few disturbing past experiences in encountering Prunefaces whose detailed language cognizance fell below acceptable standards.
Misapplied Pluralization
Pronouns which come under what we call the “indefinite” category and pertain to persons may sound plural by their nature, but are decidedly singular. Such treatment applies to “anyone”, “anybody”, “everyone”, “everybody”, “no one”, and “nobody”.
When any of the above terms is followed by a possessive adjective which modifies a noun, pluralization can never apply. In order to cut through the gobbledegookery of the statement we’ve just made, typical incorrect examples are cited below.
Anyone (or anybody) must live up to their standards.
Everyone (or everybody) wants to have their own way.
No one (or nobody) likes to have their dreams spoiled.
In each above instance, the possessive adjective must be either his or her. There are absolutely no exceptions.
The same principle applies when using the word “each”, in apparent reference to multiple persons. As a memory aide, think of the once-famous song and the old movie, both entitled To Each His Own.
Wrong Case Before Gerund
For those whose minds need a little refreshing, a gerund is a verb form that ends with “ing” and thus becomes a noun under certain context circumstances. If a personal pronoun adjective is required to precede it, the possessive case must be used. Again, we’ll illustrate with a few common erroneous examples, followed by the proper form.
The crowd cheered at me scoring a touchdown. (my)
I don’t like you getting into fights. (your)
The policeman became curious over him standing around. (his)
I heard about her being sick. (her – this one’s free!)
The storekeeper wasn’t happy about us stealing his merchandise. (our)
We’re upset over them having difficulties. (their)
The same doctrine will normally apply where a noun is used in an adjectival sense, as shown below.
Parents seldom approve of their children eating junk food. (children’s)
Tell me about Betty attending school. (Betty’s)
We deplored Senator Foghorn shouting about the federal budget. (Foghorn’s)
A gerund should not be confused with the present participle verb form, spelled the same way, but becoming an adjective rather than a noun. We regret to say, however, that the distinction isn’t always too clear.
Superfluous Personal Pronouns
CNN’s well-known political reporter Wolf Blitzer commits this type of error night after night on his regular broadcasts, and he’s certainly not the medium’s only offender.
When referring to a specific person or group by name, it is absolutely incorrect to follow immediately with the related pronoun. The following examples state the case quite readily.
Peyton Manning, he’s a fine quarterback.
Michelle Obama, she appeared on Oprah Winfrey’s show.
Our foreign aid program, it’s a complex matter.
The Senate Ways and Means Committee, they met yesterday.
An individual’s or organization’s name provides adequate identification, so no need exists to embellish a sentence by adding a redundant pronoun. This is precisely in accordance with the King’s or Queen’s English rulebook.
Adjectives Used as Adverbs
The German language, a first cousin to English, contains a certain uniqueness, with the adjective and related adverb forms being the same, making matters a bit easier, at least in one isolated respect, for our counterpart citizens over yonder. We Anglophiles are granted only a small handful of similar opportunities.
However, we often hear additional adverb liberties being taken, as below.
Our family eats good. (well)
His new suit fits perfect. (perfectly)
Tom spoke direct to the commanding officer. (directly)
She fixed the dinner table up nice. (nicely)
We played the game bad. (badly)
They shouted too loud. (loudly)
Possessive Form of Else
There once was a rule which forbade using the word “else” in a possessive sense after an indefinite pronoun, but it seems to have disappeared from the books, and we consider that a fortunate development.
Technically speaking, the archaic means called for the following type of expression.
Anyone’s (or anybody’s) else contribution will be appreciated.
Everyone’s (or everybody’s) else clothing was gaudier.
No one’s (or nobody’s) else shoes will fit me.
That is someone’s (or somebody’s) else problem.
We thank our lucky stars that such silly sounding word combinations have disappeared from official use, allowing “else” to serve as a sort of specialized word under proper conditions.
After All Is Said and Done
Perhaps this fellow belongs to a very remote minority group, whose minds are devoted to 100% rulebook-adhering English. Nevertheless, we’re bound to go on wincing and gulping whenever the person on the TV screen utters a statement which fails to meet our somewhat stringent standards. Even though it’s most likely that we’ll have to go on living with this personally distasteful situation, we can’t resist the urge to fight windmills by a slightly more publicized means than before.
This writer was somehow blessed with the surprising ability to remember every single grammatical rule thrown at him and his classmates throughout the lengthy ordeal. Although not the world’s most magnificent natural endowment, such condition has never gone unappreciated. Unhappily, we’ve found this to be far from the case with a substantial majority of our native populace.
Not a single conversation-listening or TV-watching day goes by without our being forced to grimace slightly over a deluge of fundamental speech errors. They range from frightful down to relatively minor, and are all in conflict with the explicit schoolroom instructions put forth by every Miss or Sister Pruneface seated up front.
The oral butchery we encounter on the street, with its rash of double negatives, wrong pronouns, incorrect verb forms, improper noun or adjective selection, misused prepositions, and the like might as well be summarily ignored. Such constant and uncontrollably misguided output is best written off, as would be a bad loan to your shiftless brother-in-law. They add up to sheer hopelessness, with no solution in sight.
However, what we view as the prime correctible sins are those committed by that vast array of persons whose livings are earned by addressing the public on a daily basis. Television, which holds predominance in our modern media world, is therefore the chief source of our private dilemma.
News and sports announcers, political pundits, talk show hosts, commercial message blabbers, and even congressmen are often heard uttering vocal errors, in what we may fittingly call benign disdain for those dedicated English teachers who once strove so valiantly on their behalves.
If a reader should choose to challenge any point we cover below regarding basic rules, our response will be either to “look it up” or else “go consult an English teacher”. Unfortunately though, following this latter route may prove fruitless, since we’ve had a few disturbing past experiences in encountering Prunefaces whose detailed language cognizance fell below acceptable standards.
Misapplied Pluralization
Pronouns which come under what we call the “indefinite” category and pertain to persons may sound plural by their nature, but are decidedly singular. Such treatment applies to “anyone”, “anybody”, “everyone”, “everybody”, “no one”, and “nobody”.
When any of the above terms is followed by a possessive adjective which modifies a noun, pluralization can never apply. In order to cut through the gobbledegookery of the statement we’ve just made, typical incorrect examples are cited below.
Anyone (or anybody) must live up to their standards.
Everyone (or everybody) wants to have their own way.
No one (or nobody) likes to have their dreams spoiled.
In each above instance, the possessive adjective must be either his or her. There are absolutely no exceptions.
The same principle applies when using the word “each”, in apparent reference to multiple persons. As a memory aide, think of the once-famous song and the old movie, both entitled To Each His Own.
Wrong Case Before Gerund
For those whose minds need a little refreshing, a gerund is a verb form that ends with “ing” and thus becomes a noun under certain context circumstances. If a personal pronoun adjective is required to precede it, the possessive case must be used. Again, we’ll illustrate with a few common erroneous examples, followed by the proper form.
The crowd cheered at me scoring a touchdown. (my)
I don’t like you getting into fights. (your)
The policeman became curious over him standing around. (his)
I heard about her being sick. (her – this one’s free!)
The storekeeper wasn’t happy about us stealing his merchandise. (our)
We’re upset over them having difficulties. (their)
The same doctrine will normally apply where a noun is used in an adjectival sense, as shown below.
Parents seldom approve of their children eating junk food. (children’s)
Tell me about Betty attending school. (Betty’s)
We deplored Senator Foghorn shouting about the federal budget. (Foghorn’s)
A gerund should not be confused with the present participle verb form, spelled the same way, but becoming an adjective rather than a noun. We regret to say, however, that the distinction isn’t always too clear.
Superfluous Personal Pronouns
CNN’s well-known political reporter Wolf Blitzer commits this type of error night after night on his regular broadcasts, and he’s certainly not the medium’s only offender.
When referring to a specific person or group by name, it is absolutely incorrect to follow immediately with the related pronoun. The following examples state the case quite readily.
Peyton Manning, he’s a fine quarterback.
Michelle Obama, she appeared on Oprah Winfrey’s show.
Our foreign aid program, it’s a complex matter.
The Senate Ways and Means Committee, they met yesterday.
An individual’s or organization’s name provides adequate identification, so no need exists to embellish a sentence by adding a redundant pronoun. This is precisely in accordance with the King’s or Queen’s English rulebook.
Adjectives Used as Adverbs
The German language, a first cousin to English, contains a certain uniqueness, with the adjective and related adverb forms being the same, making matters a bit easier, at least in one isolated respect, for our counterpart citizens over yonder. We Anglophiles are granted only a small handful of similar opportunities.
However, we often hear additional adverb liberties being taken, as below.
Our family eats good. (well)
His new suit fits perfect. (perfectly)
Tom spoke direct to the commanding officer. (directly)
She fixed the dinner table up nice. (nicely)
We played the game bad. (badly)
They shouted too loud. (loudly)
Possessive Form of Else
There once was a rule which forbade using the word “else” in a possessive sense after an indefinite pronoun, but it seems to have disappeared from the books, and we consider that a fortunate development.
Technically speaking, the archaic means called for the following type of expression.
Anyone’s (or anybody’s) else contribution will be appreciated.
Everyone’s (or everybody’s) else clothing was gaudier.
No one’s (or nobody’s) else shoes will fit me.
That is someone’s (or somebody’s) else problem.
We thank our lucky stars that such silly sounding word combinations have disappeared from official use, allowing “else” to serve as a sort of specialized word under proper conditions.
After All Is Said and Done
Perhaps this fellow belongs to a very remote minority group, whose minds are devoted to 100% rulebook-adhering English. Nevertheless, we’re bound to go on wincing and gulping whenever the person on the TV screen utters a statement which fails to meet our somewhat stringent standards. Even though it’s most likely that we’ll have to go on living with this personally distasteful situation, we can’t resist the urge to fight windmills by a slightly more publicized means than before.
Monday, September 14, 2009
RACIAL LABELING: OVERDUE RESPECT OR DEMEANING SUPREMACISM?
Now that the days of four restrooms, two drinking fountains, separate schools, and “whites only” signs adorning store and restaurant doors throughout the South, complemented by snide undercover slurs in the allegedly more liberal North, seem to be gone for good, we find entirely new racial relationship rules to have taken apparent effect. Are Thomas Jefferson’s words about all men being created equal finally being observed, after a couple centuries-plus of mere lip service to his Declaration of Independence decree? Well, yes, but mostly outwardly, and rather grudgingly, as we view the situation. Specifically speaking, we consider this business of attaching “respectful” labels to minority group members an exercise in deceit.
In the interest of offering a supposed retroactive apology for the hitherto universally acceptable mistreatment and insults, some clown a few years back decided it might be nice and peachy to replace the old standby terms like “colored”, “negro”, and the numerous corollary slurs with “African-American”. By the same token, “injuns”, “redskins”, “savages”, etc. promptly came to be called “Native Americans”. In this fellow’s eyes, such practice is superficial, pompous, and silly.
Whenever we hear or read either of these definitive expressions, we tend to wince, and solemnly resolve never to resort to their hypocritical use. Our so-called newly-tolerant white populace has established little more than a new way to continue looking down on its fellow races, but in a slightly more patronizing manner.
Obviously, the first person whose name crops up as an authentic African-American is President Obama. Born here, but with a Kenyan father, he fits the description in a purely technical sense. However, does logic dictate attaching the same label to so-called black race members whose parents were native to U.S. soil – like his wife Michelle, for example? What on earth is African about her?
Regarding the business whereby Indians are now recast as Native Americans, we’ve always been under the impression that such term applies to anyone born in the United States, irrespective of heritage. Why should we limit said designation to those people who owned the Americas before the white man arrived to give them a merciless undeserved drubbing?
As we all know, the word Indian is totally incorrect, thanks to our friend Chris Colombo’s misconception. The British label Red Indian fits better, but only a tad. Nevertheless, we still refuse to buy the Native American bit solely for this particular racial group.
Since we’re doing a magnificent job at kidding ourselves, through well-chosen wordings, into believing that white supremacist thinking no longer exists, why not relabel all locally-born Jews, who are and likely always will be subject to Christian prejudice, as Israeli-Americans? In turn, we might similarly honor Asian-Americans and Hispano-Americans, or else just attach any appropriate foreign country prefix, e.g. Franco-, Germano-, Russo-, Czecho-, or whatever. That would make looking down our noses at the entire lot much easier.
By way of conclusion, therefore, why can’t our terminology practices be boiled down to a single-word designation for any human being born or legally naturalized in this country? What would be so wrong, not to mention far more respectful, with simply calling everyone so qualified as a plain American?
In the interest of offering a supposed retroactive apology for the hitherto universally acceptable mistreatment and insults, some clown a few years back decided it might be nice and peachy to replace the old standby terms like “colored”, “negro”, and the numerous corollary slurs with “African-American”. By the same token, “injuns”, “redskins”, “savages”, etc. promptly came to be called “Native Americans”. In this fellow’s eyes, such practice is superficial, pompous, and silly.
Whenever we hear or read either of these definitive expressions, we tend to wince, and solemnly resolve never to resort to their hypocritical use. Our so-called newly-tolerant white populace has established little more than a new way to continue looking down on its fellow races, but in a slightly more patronizing manner.
Obviously, the first person whose name crops up as an authentic African-American is President Obama. Born here, but with a Kenyan father, he fits the description in a purely technical sense. However, does logic dictate attaching the same label to so-called black race members whose parents were native to U.S. soil – like his wife Michelle, for example? What on earth is African about her?
Regarding the business whereby Indians are now recast as Native Americans, we’ve always been under the impression that such term applies to anyone born in the United States, irrespective of heritage. Why should we limit said designation to those people who owned the Americas before the white man arrived to give them a merciless undeserved drubbing?
As we all know, the word Indian is totally incorrect, thanks to our friend Chris Colombo’s misconception. The British label Red Indian fits better, but only a tad. Nevertheless, we still refuse to buy the Native American bit solely for this particular racial group.
Since we’re doing a magnificent job at kidding ourselves, through well-chosen wordings, into believing that white supremacist thinking no longer exists, why not relabel all locally-born Jews, who are and likely always will be subject to Christian prejudice, as Israeli-Americans? In turn, we might similarly honor Asian-Americans and Hispano-Americans, or else just attach any appropriate foreign country prefix, e.g. Franco-, Germano-, Russo-, Czecho-, or whatever. That would make looking down our noses at the entire lot much easier.
By way of conclusion, therefore, why can’t our terminology practices be boiled down to a single-word designation for any human being born or legally naturalized in this country? What would be so wrong, not to mention far more respectful, with simply calling everyone so qualified as a plain American?
Saturday, September 12, 2009
A SPOT OF NOSTALGIA
Since the majority of our readers are probably too young to have experienced the days when full-sized dance bands reigned supreme in the popular music world, we can only consider them unfortunate for having missed out on a brief but glorious age. Those years from approximately 1934 up until the close of the second world war remain a treasured memory in this fellow’s eyes. Its sudden decline is personally viewed as comparable in historical significance to the 1929 stock market crash and Soviet Russia’s downfall many moons afterward.
The music genre of that fabled era had actually originated late in the nineteenth century, but was pretty much limited back then to entertaining riverboat passengers or saloon and brothel patrons, quite often on piano only. The gradual progression to the early 1920s brought on numerous multi-instrumental groups, who had found a new home in the country’s recent innovation, the speakeasy. Their output sounded a bit raw much of the time, with individual members tending to strive more for originality than note-playing unison. In any event, the attentive listening public still consisted mainly of unlawful drinkers and bawdy house clientele.
By the latter 1920s, however, as evidenced by the orchestral works of Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, and Paul Whiteman, much of the raggedness had been smoothed out. Such refinement continued into the mid-1930s, at which point a big bang suddenly occurred, helped considerably by the advancing development of radio, along with a clarinet-wielding bandleader named Benny Goodman’s bursting into prominence.
Benny’s outpourings hit the proverbial jackpot, and in virtually no time, scores of similar outfits began to spring up like mushrooms. Jazz, a term bearing an obscene connotation, quickly became relabled “swing”, and all hell proceeded to break loose across the land. The more youthful congregation felt an enthrallment bordering on sheer ecstasy, with a universal clamor for this purportedly new musicianship style. The age of fourteen-plus instrument bands had come up like more thunder ever seen from China ‘cross the bay.
Goodman’s superb clarinet artistry popularized that particular instrument no end. Additionally, the flashy stickwork and facial mugging of his drummer Gene Krupa introduced a new role for the tub-thumpers. They quickly became heroic figures, no longer mere providers of beat support for the horn blowers. Benny had also hired a chap named Lionel Hampton, who converted the hitherto unknown and unappreciated vibraphone into a longlasting modern music element.
While the kids of the realm reveled in their day-to-day enthrallment over the likes of Goodman, the Dorseys, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Woody Herman, and the rest, their forbears viewed the swing exponents with downright scorn. The parental generation, a collective entity which hadn’t yet stopped mourning the Titanic, considered such output as Satan’s own doing, or more simply “just noise”. How did those whippersnappers dare play a tune other than note-for-note the way it had been written? Wasn’t the rendering of Loch Lomond and other such semi-sacred pieces with a bouncy beat virtual blasphemy? Mercy, this sacrilege couldn’t go on!
Nevertheless, it did. Benny Goodman’s 1938 concert held at Carnegie Hall became a monumental contribution to modern music. The entire realm of ultraconservative thinking was shattered in a single evening.
By way of an aside, that enraptured gang of youthful fandom would eventually grow up to condemn rock music one fine day, just as their predecessors had frowned upon the big bands and their swinging ways years earlier. Like the man said, sic transit gloria mundi.
Looking back again on that brief but glory-laden period, the standard orchestra complement of reeds, brass, and rhythm instruments also featured a pleasant-to-gaze-upon girl singer, a good-looking male counterpart, perhaps a band member who doubled as a comedic or belt-it-out vocalist, and even a supplementary warbling trio or quartet. Down Beat and Metronome, the two leading popular music industry magazines, staged annual reader polls to select their favorite outfits, individual sidemen, and balladeers.
Bands traveled by chartered bus from city to city, offering lone club or dance performances, then immediately hopping off to the next engagement. This modus operandi became known as giving one-night stands, whose definition bore no resemblance to our more modern, somewhat quickie romance connotation.
We can’t really say that World War II caused the big band age’s downfall. The demise had to be inevitable for whatever reasons. By 1946, it was no longer as practical or profitable to lug a gang of musicians across the country night after night. The demand for mellow and brassy swing numbers had dimmed in relation to the supply. The mass hysteria suddenly switched to the likes of Frank Sinatra and his fellow crooners.
Yes, individual vocalists had now taken center stage, many having emerged from the big bands to continue on their own. However, the instrumental chaps didn’t just give up and go home. Goodman, Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Woody Herman, Harry James, Gene Krupa, Stan Kenton, and others remained intact for a long while, with either their full crews or perhaps having cut them down to small combos. Still, things could never be the same again. The era of perpetual madness had passed. The output of these once-deified people brought only reminiscences, not the so-called real thing anymore.
Although that illustrious age will never return, we can at least thank heaven for today’s CDs, which have replaced the old scratchy, highly fragile phonograph records, and offer reprocessed jazz masterpieces galore. Those among us old enough to have reveled in those times when the first words uttered to a schoolmate each morning would be “Did you hear Glenn Miller last night?” are thus able to relive the pleasures of an unforgettable period.
The music genre of that fabled era had actually originated late in the nineteenth century, but was pretty much limited back then to entertaining riverboat passengers or saloon and brothel patrons, quite often on piano only. The gradual progression to the early 1920s brought on numerous multi-instrumental groups, who had found a new home in the country’s recent innovation, the speakeasy. Their output sounded a bit raw much of the time, with individual members tending to strive more for originality than note-playing unison. In any event, the attentive listening public still consisted mainly of unlawful drinkers and bawdy house clientele.
By the latter 1920s, however, as evidenced by the orchestral works of Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, and Paul Whiteman, much of the raggedness had been smoothed out. Such refinement continued into the mid-1930s, at which point a big bang suddenly occurred, helped considerably by the advancing development of radio, along with a clarinet-wielding bandleader named Benny Goodman’s bursting into prominence.
Benny’s outpourings hit the proverbial jackpot, and in virtually no time, scores of similar outfits began to spring up like mushrooms. Jazz, a term bearing an obscene connotation, quickly became relabled “swing”, and all hell proceeded to break loose across the land. The more youthful congregation felt an enthrallment bordering on sheer ecstasy, with a universal clamor for this purportedly new musicianship style. The age of fourteen-plus instrument bands had come up like more thunder ever seen from China ‘cross the bay.
Goodman’s superb clarinet artistry popularized that particular instrument no end. Additionally, the flashy stickwork and facial mugging of his drummer Gene Krupa introduced a new role for the tub-thumpers. They quickly became heroic figures, no longer mere providers of beat support for the horn blowers. Benny had also hired a chap named Lionel Hampton, who converted the hitherto unknown and unappreciated vibraphone into a longlasting modern music element.
While the kids of the realm reveled in their day-to-day enthrallment over the likes of Goodman, the Dorseys, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Woody Herman, and the rest, their forbears viewed the swing exponents with downright scorn. The parental generation, a collective entity which hadn’t yet stopped mourning the Titanic, considered such output as Satan’s own doing, or more simply “just noise”. How did those whippersnappers dare play a tune other than note-for-note the way it had been written? Wasn’t the rendering of Loch Lomond and other such semi-sacred pieces with a bouncy beat virtual blasphemy? Mercy, this sacrilege couldn’t go on!
Nevertheless, it did. Benny Goodman’s 1938 concert held at Carnegie Hall became a monumental contribution to modern music. The entire realm of ultraconservative thinking was shattered in a single evening.
By way of an aside, that enraptured gang of youthful fandom would eventually grow up to condemn rock music one fine day, just as their predecessors had frowned upon the big bands and their swinging ways years earlier. Like the man said, sic transit gloria mundi.
Looking back again on that brief but glory-laden period, the standard orchestra complement of reeds, brass, and rhythm instruments also featured a pleasant-to-gaze-upon girl singer, a good-looking male counterpart, perhaps a band member who doubled as a comedic or belt-it-out vocalist, and even a supplementary warbling trio or quartet. Down Beat and Metronome, the two leading popular music industry magazines, staged annual reader polls to select their favorite outfits, individual sidemen, and balladeers.
Bands traveled by chartered bus from city to city, offering lone club or dance performances, then immediately hopping off to the next engagement. This modus operandi became known as giving one-night stands, whose definition bore no resemblance to our more modern, somewhat quickie romance connotation.
We can’t really say that World War II caused the big band age’s downfall. The demise had to be inevitable for whatever reasons. By 1946, it was no longer as practical or profitable to lug a gang of musicians across the country night after night. The demand for mellow and brassy swing numbers had dimmed in relation to the supply. The mass hysteria suddenly switched to the likes of Frank Sinatra and his fellow crooners.
Yes, individual vocalists had now taken center stage, many having emerged from the big bands to continue on their own. However, the instrumental chaps didn’t just give up and go home. Goodman, Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Woody Herman, Harry James, Gene Krupa, Stan Kenton, and others remained intact for a long while, with either their full crews or perhaps having cut them down to small combos. Still, things could never be the same again. The era of perpetual madness had passed. The output of these once-deified people brought only reminiscences, not the so-called real thing anymore.
Although that illustrious age will never return, we can at least thank heaven for today’s CDs, which have replaced the old scratchy, highly fragile phonograph records, and offer reprocessed jazz masterpieces galore. Those among us old enough to have reveled in those times when the first words uttered to a schoolmate each morning would be “Did you hear Glenn Miller last night?” are thus able to relive the pleasures of an unforgettable period.
A SPOT OF NOSTALGIA
Since the majority of our readers are probably too young to have experienced the days when full-sized dance bands reigned supreme in the popular music world, we can only consider them unfortunate for having missed out on a brief but glorious age. Those years from approximately 1934 up until the close of the second world war remain a treasured memory in this fellow’s eyes. Its sudden decline is personally viewed as comparable in historical significance to the 1929 stock market crash and Soviet Russia’s downfall many moons afterward.
The music genre of that fabled era had actually originated late in the nineteenth century, but was pretty much limited back then to entertaining riverboat passengers or saloon and brothel patrons, quite often on piano only. The gradual progression to the early 1920s brought on numerous multi-instrumental groups, who had found a new home in the country’s recent innovation, the speakeasy. Their output sounded a bit raw much of the time, with individual members tending to strive more for originality than note-playing unison. In any event, the attentive listening public still consisted mainly of unlawful drinkers and bawdy house clientele.
By the latter 1920s, however, as evidenced by the orchestral works of Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, and Paul Whiteman, much of the raggedness had been smoothed out. Such refinement continued into the mid-1930s, at which point a big bang suddenly occurred, helped considerably by the advancing development of radio, along with a clarinet-wielding bandleader named Benny Goodman’s bursting into prominence.
Benny’s outpourings hit the proverbial jackpot, and in virtually no time, scores of similar outfits began to spring up like mushrooms. Jazz, a term bearing an obscene connotation, quickly became relabled “swing”, and all hell proceeded to break loose across the land. The more youthful congregation felt an enthrallment bordering on sheer ecstasy, with a universal clamor for this purportedly new musicianship style. The age of fourteen-plus instrument bands had come up like more thunder ever seen from China ‘cross the bay.
Goodman’s superb clarinet artistry popularized that particular instrument no end. Additionally, the flashy stickwork and facial mugging of his drummer Gene Krupa introduced a new role for the tub-thumpers. They quickly became heroic figures, no longer mere providers of beat support for the horn blowers. Benny had also hired a chap named Lionel Hampton, who converted the hitherto unknown and unappreciated vibraphone into a longlasting modern music element.
While the kids of the realm reveled in their day-to-day enthrallment over the likes of Goodman, the Dorseys, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Woody Herman, and the rest, their forbears viewed the swing exponents with downright scorn. The parental generation, a collective entity which hadn’t yet stopped mourning the Titanic, considered such output as Satan’s own doing, or more simply “just noise”. How did those whippersnappers dare play a tune other than note-for-note the way it had been written? Wasn’t the rendering of Loch Lomond and other such semi-sacred pieces with a bouncy beat virtual blasphemy? Mercy, this sacrilege couldn’t go on!
The music genre of that fabled era had actually originated late in the nineteenth century, but was pretty much limited back then to entertaining riverboat passengers or saloon and brothel patrons, quite often on piano only. The gradual progression to the early 1920s brought on numerous multi-instrumental groups, who had found a new home in the country’s recent innovation, the speakeasy. Their output sounded a bit raw much of the time, with individual members tending to strive more for originality than note-playing unison. In any event, the attentive listening public still consisted mainly of unlawful drinkers and bawdy house clientele.
By the latter 1920s, however, as evidenced by the orchestral works of Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, and Paul Whiteman, much of the raggedness had been smoothed out. Such refinement continued into the mid-1930s, at which point a big bang suddenly occurred, helped considerably by the advancing development of radio, along with a clarinet-wielding bandleader named Benny Goodman’s bursting into prominence.
Benny’s outpourings hit the proverbial jackpot, and in virtually no time, scores of similar outfits began to spring up like mushrooms. Jazz, a term bearing an obscene connotation, quickly became relabled “swing”, and all hell proceeded to break loose across the land. The more youthful congregation felt an enthrallment bordering on sheer ecstasy, with a universal clamor for this purportedly new musicianship style. The age of fourteen-plus instrument bands had come up like more thunder ever seen from China ‘cross the bay.
Goodman’s superb clarinet artistry popularized that particular instrument no end. Additionally, the flashy stickwork and facial mugging of his drummer Gene Krupa introduced a new role for the tub-thumpers. They quickly became heroic figures, no longer mere providers of beat support for the horn blowers. Benny had also hired a chap named Lionel Hampton, who converted the hitherto unknown and unappreciated vibraphone into a longlasting modern music element.
While the kids of the realm reveled in their day-to-day enthrallment over the likes of Goodman, the Dorseys, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Woody Herman, and the rest, their forbears viewed the swing exponents with downright scorn. The parental generation, a collective entity which hadn’t yet stopped mourning the Titanic, considered such output as Satan’s own doing, or more simply “just noise”. How did those whippersnappers dare play a tune other than note-for-note the way it had been written? Wasn’t the rendering of Loch Lomond and other such semi-sacred pieces with a bouncy beat virtual blasphemy? Mercy, this sacrilege couldn’t go on!
Nevertheless, it did. Benny Goodman’s 1938 concert held at Carnegie Hall became a monumental contribution to modern music. The entire realm of ultraconservative thinking was shattered in a single evening.
By way of an aside, that enraptured gang of youthful fandom would eventually grow up to condemn rock music one fine day, just as their predecessors had frowned upon the big bands and their swinging ways years earlier. Like the man said, sic transit gloria mundi.
Looking back again on that brief but glory-laden period, the standard orchestra complement of reeds, brass, and rhythm instruments also featured a pleasant-to-gaze-upon girl singer, a good-looking male counterpart, perhaps a band member who doubled as a comedic or belt-it-out vocalist, and even a supplementary warbling trio or quartet. Down Beat and Metronome, the two leading popular music industry magazines, staged annual reader polls to select their favorite outfits, individual sidemen, and balladeers.
Bands traveled by chartered bus from city to city, offering lone club or dance performances, then immediately hopping off to the next engagement. This modus operandi became known as giving one-night stands, whose definition bore no resemblance to our more modern, somewhat quickie romance connotation.
We can’t really say that World War II caused the big band age’s downfall. The demise had to be inevitable for whatever reasons. By 1946, it was no longer as practical or profitable to lug a gang of musicians across the country night after night. The demand for mellow and brassy swing numbers had dimmed in relation to the supply. The mass hysteria suddenly switched to the likes of Frank Sinatra and his fellow crooners.
Yes, individual vocalists had now taken center stage, many having emerged from the big bands to continue on their own. However, the instrumental chaps didn’t just give up and go home. Goodman, Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Woody Herman, Harry James, Gene Krupa, Stan Kenton, and others remained intact for a long while, with either their full crews or perhaps having cut them down to small combos. Still, things could never be the same again. The era of perpetual madness had passed. The output of these once-deified people brought only reminiscences, not the so-called real thing anymore.
Although that illustrious age will never return, we can at least thank heaven for today’s CDs, which have replaced the old scratchy, highly fragile phonograph records, and offer reprocessed jazz masterpieces galore. Those among us old enough to have reveled in those times when the first words uttered to a schoolmate each morning would be “Did you hear Glenn Miller last night?” are thus able to relive the pleasures of an unforgettable period.
By way of an aside, that enraptured gang of youthful fandom would eventually grow up to condemn rock music one fine day, just as their predecessors had frowned upon the big bands and their swinging ways years earlier. Like the man said, sic transit gloria mundi.
Looking back again on that brief but glory-laden period, the standard orchestra complement of reeds, brass, and rhythm instruments also featured a pleasant-to-gaze-upon girl singer, a good-looking male counterpart, perhaps a band member who doubled as a comedic or belt-it-out vocalist, and even a supplementary warbling trio or quartet. Down Beat and Metronome, the two leading popular music industry magazines, staged annual reader polls to select their favorite outfits, individual sidemen, and balladeers.
Bands traveled by chartered bus from city to city, offering lone club or dance performances, then immediately hopping off to the next engagement. This modus operandi became known as giving one-night stands, whose definition bore no resemblance to our more modern, somewhat quickie romance connotation.
We can’t really say that World War II caused the big band age’s downfall. The demise had to be inevitable for whatever reasons. By 1946, it was no longer as practical or profitable to lug a gang of musicians across the country night after night. The demand for mellow and brassy swing numbers had dimmed in relation to the supply. The mass hysteria suddenly switched to the likes of Frank Sinatra and his fellow crooners.
Yes, individual vocalists had now taken center stage, many having emerged from the big bands to continue on their own. However, the instrumental chaps didn’t just give up and go home. Goodman, Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Woody Herman, Harry James, Gene Krupa, Stan Kenton, and others remained intact for a long while, with either their full crews or perhaps having cut them down to small combos. Still, things could never be the same again. The era of perpetual madness had passed. The output of these once-deified people brought only reminiscences, not the so-called real thing anymore.
Although that illustrious age will never return, we can at least thank heaven for today’s CDs, which have replaced the old scratchy, highly fragile phonograph records, and offer reprocessed jazz masterpieces galore. Those among us old enough to have reveled in those times when the first words uttered to a schoolmate each morning would be “Did you hear Glenn Miller last night?” are thus able to relive the pleasures of an unforgettable period.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
UNILINGUINITY -- A DECIDED ATTITUDE SHORTCOMING
In the course of this writer’s reasonably extensive global meanderings, he has all too often come into contact, casual or otherwise, with folks who hold steadfastly to certain beliefs, which we can most fittingly define as “onlyoneism”. What this piece deems as deplorable is how so many of our ultra-narrow minded clansmen feel that:
· There is only one country in the world, being the USA;
· There is only one religion, namely Christianity, under whatever denomination umbrella
applies;
· There is only one language worth speaking and writing (yes, you guessed it), English.
Our purpose here is to concentrate exclusively on the third-cited above case, dealing with pure and strict unilingualism. Despite our lack of sympathy with the other two highly prevalent attitudes, we’ll reserve further comment on such matters for another day.
We once heard the following joke, which tends to circulate among native Europeans, and expresses a mild degree of contempt in its context:
PAT: What do you call a person who can speak two languages?
MIKE: Well … er … bilingual.
PAT: Three languages?
MIKE: Trilingual.
PAT: Now then, how about a person speaks only one language?
MIKE: That’s easy. American.
Unhappily, we’ve found the impression so conveyed to be quite true.
Still, we’d be the first to admit that the ability to master a second language doesn’t lie within everybody, especially since so many born and educated in this country can’t even handle English adequately. Nevertheless, we see no excuse for the utter disdain so frequently observed even to make a stab at a foreign tongue, if just to learn the more common pleasantry expressions, and attempt to pronounce them properly.
We can readily excuse instances where such French terms as bon voyage and déjà vu have been absorbed into English and duly mispronounced. On the other hand, careless or downright intentional opposite language phrase distortion, a practice often carried out by diehard anglophones in such locations as Canada’s Quebec Province, a distinctly bilingual area, are totally unacceptable to our sensitive ears.
All we really seek in this exercise is a touch more of worldliness among our countrymen, as opposed to the overly-prominent verbal isolationism. Spanish has become a rather widely-used tongue on American soil, especially in New York City, the Southwest, California, and elsewhere. French has established a minor foothold in the Northeast. The West Coast offers a variety of Southeast Asian languages, and a person can hear literally dozens of others being spoken by just walking up or down Broadway at any hour.
What, therefore, could be so wrong with this vast band of onlyoners biting the bullet and accepting the fact that the U.S. has evolved into an intensely internationalized country, occupied by scads of respectable immigrants? Why not put forth a little effort to learn at least a smattering of their native speech, for no other reason than to be more friendly and communicative? Immigrants face a need for English proficiency solely by virtue of being here, and are sure to appreciate some reciprocation, albeit limited. It’s the thought that counts.
Furthermore, we consider the idea right neighborly.
· There is only one country in the world, being the USA;
· There is only one religion, namely Christianity, under whatever denomination umbrella
applies;
· There is only one language worth speaking and writing (yes, you guessed it), English.
Our purpose here is to concentrate exclusively on the third-cited above case, dealing with pure and strict unilingualism. Despite our lack of sympathy with the other two highly prevalent attitudes, we’ll reserve further comment on such matters for another day.
We once heard the following joke, which tends to circulate among native Europeans, and expresses a mild degree of contempt in its context:
PAT: What do you call a person who can speak two languages?
MIKE: Well … er … bilingual.
PAT: Three languages?
MIKE: Trilingual.
PAT: Now then, how about a person speaks only one language?
MIKE: That’s easy. American.
Unhappily, we’ve found the impression so conveyed to be quite true.
Still, we’d be the first to admit that the ability to master a second language doesn’t lie within everybody, especially since so many born and educated in this country can’t even handle English adequately. Nevertheless, we see no excuse for the utter disdain so frequently observed even to make a stab at a foreign tongue, if just to learn the more common pleasantry expressions, and attempt to pronounce them properly.
We can readily excuse instances where such French terms as bon voyage and déjà vu have been absorbed into English and duly mispronounced. On the other hand, careless or downright intentional opposite language phrase distortion, a practice often carried out by diehard anglophones in such locations as Canada’s Quebec Province, a distinctly bilingual area, are totally unacceptable to our sensitive ears.
All we really seek in this exercise is a touch more of worldliness among our countrymen, as opposed to the overly-prominent verbal isolationism. Spanish has become a rather widely-used tongue on American soil, especially in New York City, the Southwest, California, and elsewhere. French has established a minor foothold in the Northeast. The West Coast offers a variety of Southeast Asian languages, and a person can hear literally dozens of others being spoken by just walking up or down Broadway at any hour.
What, therefore, could be so wrong with this vast band of onlyoners biting the bullet and accepting the fact that the U.S. has evolved into an intensely internationalized country, occupied by scads of respectable immigrants? Why not put forth a little effort to learn at least a smattering of their native speech, for no other reason than to be more friendly and communicative? Immigrants face a need for English proficiency solely by virtue of being here, and are sure to appreciate some reciprocation, albeit limited. It’s the thought that counts.
Furthermore, we consider the idea right neighborly.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
DAVID KOUVEK'S OWN ADVENTURES IN GOOD EATING
Unlike Duncan Hines, America’s well-known twentieth century gourmet, who used to roam about the country in search of exotic tastes, this writer is just a fellow who has traveled a fair bit, thus having had frequent opportunity to drop in for a bite after a hard day’s journeying and sight-gasping. Furthermore, we won’t be citing the most renowned hash houses throughout the globe, but only those where memories of a delightful repast or two has been immensely enjoyed. For example, we’ve never been to Maxim’s in Paris, Amsterdam’s Five Flies, or Antoine’s, down New Orleans way. Actually, a few of our chosen eating spots are small-sized, removed some distance from the fast-track tourist areas, and never prominently displayed in the brochures.
Unfortunately, this article can hardly be usable as a guide to would-be travelers/diners. Many of our choicer beaneries may well have either ceased to exist, declined in quality, or been converted to airline ticket offices, since long years have passed since we last visited the cities mentioned. It’s simply that the recollections refuse to fade from memory.
Unhappily, the identities of a certain select few have been irretrievably forgotten. Among others are the delightful spot in Vienna which served a marvelous black forest cake for dessert, and the Michigan ski area emporium where, if you ordered a steak, they’d throw away the horns and the tail before bringing you the rest.
Anyway, our list of the fifteen most memorable appears below, alphabetically by city.
BANGKOK, THAILAND – DUX
As pleasant a spot to visit for lunch as we've found anywhere in the entire world. Not only was the food excellent, but a person could hardly tire of the unusual decor -- miniature duck figures large, medium, and small by the dozens, viewable both within the dining area and the outdoor garden, visible to all patrons, hence the establishment's chosen name. We must sadly report, however, that for undetermined reasons, the owner closed this delightful eatery a few years ago. Having since moved away from Thailand, we can't be certain if he reopened elsewhere or not. In either case, the memory of our favorite noontime restaurant will remain with us always.
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM – LE BERLAIMONT
Located just opposite the Common Market Building, in our opinion, no better steak house exists worldwide. The smallish place used to be run by a gracious middle-aged lady, who served as maitresse d’, bartender, and lone waitress all by herself. The menu selection proved bountiful. The sole drawback was the cigarette smoke drifting over in cloudlike formation from the bar adjacent to the dining room. Perhaps that has since been rectified by law. This place caters chiefly to locals, so if the owner is still on hand doing her multiple chores, we recommend taking along a friend who speaks either French or German, unless you happen to be skilled at ordering in sign language.
CHIANG MAI, THAILAND - BRUNO'S
The native Swiss proprietor offers a most delightful atmosphere, coupled with superb food and an impressive wine list. As in other cases we cite here, a meal at Bruno's will be long remembered.
CHIANG MAI, THAILAND – THE WESTIN HOTEL DINING ROOM
The Westin offers the most prolifically-laid out buffet we’ve ever seen in the whole world. A meal there is an adventure unto itself. This particular city lies an hour north of Bangkok by air.
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS – GEORGE DIAMOND’S STEAK HOUSE
This city has as vast an array of superb beaneries as one might find anywhere, including New York City. To us, however, George Diamond’s remains the most recallable. The management very wisely kept the dining area small enough to be well occupied throughout any mealtime period. As a result, most patrons would be required to first wait at the bar, but with tables becoming miraculously available just as the second cocktail had been poured. This surely helped boost a day’s profit. The steaks were excellent, and the house adamantly refused to bring catsup or any other condiment which would compromise the meat’s taste. You either ate it as broiled or went hungry.
CLEVELAND, OHIO - CAVOLI'S
Without a doubt, the best eating spot in all of the city's west side. Although the bill-of-fare selections are varied and plentiful, our personal suggestion is to go for one of the Italian specialties.
CLEVELAND, OHIO – MAX GRUBER’S
Max used to run the best restaurant in Cleveland, and hopefully his heirs still do so. Be sure to order sauer kraut balls as an appetizer. Beyond that, whatever you choose off the menu will be tops.
CLEVELAND, OHIO – THE THEATRICAL GRILL
Located in the heart of Cleveland’s business district, this delightful watering hole and eatery used to be owned by Morris “Mushy” Wexler, alleged to have a few underworld connections. However, who cared? In addition to excellent food, and bartenders you felt you’d known for twenty years, there was high-level musical entertainment every evening.
CINCINNATI, OHIO – TED KLUSZEWSKI’S
Although the writer had learned to shun eateries owned by former athletes, this turned out to be a definite exception (Jack Dempsey’s in New York being another, but not outstanding enough to make our list). Aside from the steaks offerable at Brussels’ Le Berliamont, Ted’s emporium served the best one we’ve ever demolished. The ex-home run hitting first baseman has since left us, but we hope the restaurant remains, with the output just as exemplary.
COLUMBUS, OHIO – THE JAI ALAI
Not the most highly publicized dining spot in town, but decidedly preferable to any other, the Jai Alai used to feature the old-fashioned free lunch table(well, everything cost a nickel then) from bygone days. Over and above that, the regular meals served were first rate.
GRAND RAPIDS, MICHIGAN – SCOTTIE’S
This spot had delightful atmosphere, excellent service, and the best food ever recalled in the state of Michigan. Run by a gentleman, who tended the bar, and his wife, who seated you, it was limited in space, but great in all other respects.
JACKSON, MICHIGAN – BILL CONE’S
In an area known for its multiple buffet-style locations, Bill’s always seemed to stand about all the rest, including the more renowned Win Schuler establishments. Perhaps the marvelous service had much to do with it. In addition, nobody ever left after a meal there still feeling the slightest bit hungry.
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA – LAWRY’S THE PRIME RIB
Run by the makers of Lawry’s Salt for meat-flavor enhancement, this restaurant rates among the most unique in our memory, the reason being that it offered a single entrée only. The waitress would hand you no menu, but merely ask how you would like your prime rib of beef cooked – from rare up to well done. You’d never regret having been there, unless you happened to be a sworn vegetarian. The place would also catch the interest of the movie-star gawking types, because they’d be apt to see a few at other tables.
NEW YORK CITY – KEEN’S ENGLISH CHOP HOUSE
Keen’s may be more famous for its key atmospheric feature than its bill-of-fare, but you’re still bound to find the English mutton chop specialty quite satisfying. The big extra is the ability to enjoy a relaxing smoke on your private old-fashioned clay pipe following the meal. We dare not go back, though, having licked the tobacco habit long ago.
NEW YORK CITY – MAMA LEONIE’S
True, Gotham has many more fantastically-arrayed bistros than Leonie’s, but what remains most vividly in memory is the wide range of tasty food served, usually as supplements to the meal as ordered. This spot merits patronization for the culinary variety alone.
PARIS, FRANCE – LE TOKIANA
Most likely, few readers have ever been to this location, or even heard the name mentioned. Strictly a family eating place, and tucked away in a remote city neighborhood, even the taxi driver may have trouble finding it. If you do succeed in getting there, you won’t forget the meal. Make certain to order crepes flambees at dessert time, even if you’re already stuffed to the gills. The restaurant’s limited publicity stresses that it offers Basque food, whatever message that conveys.
ROME, ITALY – HARRY’S BAR
This very fine restaurant mustn’t be confused with the famous Paris bar bearing the same name, and occupied liberally by ladies of the night at any time. Our Harry’s lies at the very end of Rome’s widely-known Via Veneto, just before the entrance to the Villa Borghese, a public park. Perhaps the memory of a wonderful dinner was amplified by our charming guest companion.
Unfortunately, this article can hardly be usable as a guide to would-be travelers/diners. Many of our choicer beaneries may well have either ceased to exist, declined in quality, or been converted to airline ticket offices, since long years have passed since we last visited the cities mentioned. It’s simply that the recollections refuse to fade from memory.
Unhappily, the identities of a certain select few have been irretrievably forgotten. Among others are the delightful spot in Vienna which served a marvelous black forest cake for dessert, and the Michigan ski area emporium where, if you ordered a steak, they’d throw away the horns and the tail before bringing you the rest.
Anyway, our list of the fifteen most memorable appears below, alphabetically by city.
BANGKOK, THAILAND – DUX
As pleasant a spot to visit for lunch as we've found anywhere in the entire world. Not only was the food excellent, but a person could hardly tire of the unusual decor -- miniature duck figures large, medium, and small by the dozens, viewable both within the dining area and the outdoor garden, visible to all patrons, hence the establishment's chosen name. We must sadly report, however, that for undetermined reasons, the owner closed this delightful eatery a few years ago. Having since moved away from Thailand, we can't be certain if he reopened elsewhere or not. In either case, the memory of our favorite noontime restaurant will remain with us always.
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM – LE BERLAIMONT
Located just opposite the Common Market Building, in our opinion, no better steak house exists worldwide. The smallish place used to be run by a gracious middle-aged lady, who served as maitresse d’, bartender, and lone waitress all by herself. The menu selection proved bountiful. The sole drawback was the cigarette smoke drifting over in cloudlike formation from the bar adjacent to the dining room. Perhaps that has since been rectified by law. This place caters chiefly to locals, so if the owner is still on hand doing her multiple chores, we recommend taking along a friend who speaks either French or German, unless you happen to be skilled at ordering in sign language.
CHIANG MAI, THAILAND - BRUNO'S
The native Swiss proprietor offers a most delightful atmosphere, coupled with superb food and an impressive wine list. As in other cases we cite here, a meal at Bruno's will be long remembered.
CHIANG MAI, THAILAND – THE WESTIN HOTEL DINING ROOM
The Westin offers the most prolifically-laid out buffet we’ve ever seen in the whole world. A meal there is an adventure unto itself. This particular city lies an hour north of Bangkok by air.
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS – GEORGE DIAMOND’S STEAK HOUSE
This city has as vast an array of superb beaneries as one might find anywhere, including New York City. To us, however, George Diamond’s remains the most recallable. The management very wisely kept the dining area small enough to be well occupied throughout any mealtime period. As a result, most patrons would be required to first wait at the bar, but with tables becoming miraculously available just as the second cocktail had been poured. This surely helped boost a day’s profit. The steaks were excellent, and the house adamantly refused to bring catsup or any other condiment which would compromise the meat’s taste. You either ate it as broiled or went hungry.
CLEVELAND, OHIO - CAVOLI'S
Without a doubt, the best eating spot in all of the city's west side. Although the bill-of-fare selections are varied and plentiful, our personal suggestion is to go for one of the Italian specialties.
CLEVELAND, OHIO – MAX GRUBER’S
Max used to run the best restaurant in Cleveland, and hopefully his heirs still do so. Be sure to order sauer kraut balls as an appetizer. Beyond that, whatever you choose off the menu will be tops.
CLEVELAND, OHIO – THE THEATRICAL GRILL
Located in the heart of Cleveland’s business district, this delightful watering hole and eatery used to be owned by Morris “Mushy” Wexler, alleged to have a few underworld connections. However, who cared? In addition to excellent food, and bartenders you felt you’d known for twenty years, there was high-level musical entertainment every evening.
CINCINNATI, OHIO – TED KLUSZEWSKI’S
Although the writer had learned to shun eateries owned by former athletes, this turned out to be a definite exception (Jack Dempsey’s in New York being another, but not outstanding enough to make our list). Aside from the steaks offerable at Brussels’ Le Berliamont, Ted’s emporium served the best one we’ve ever demolished. The ex-home run hitting first baseman has since left us, but we hope the restaurant remains, with the output just as exemplary.
COLUMBUS, OHIO – THE JAI ALAI
Not the most highly publicized dining spot in town, but decidedly preferable to any other, the Jai Alai used to feature the old-fashioned free lunch table(well, everything cost a nickel then) from bygone days. Over and above that, the regular meals served were first rate.
GRAND RAPIDS, MICHIGAN – SCOTTIE’S
This spot had delightful atmosphere, excellent service, and the best food ever recalled in the state of Michigan. Run by a gentleman, who tended the bar, and his wife, who seated you, it was limited in space, but great in all other respects.
JACKSON, MICHIGAN – BILL CONE’S
In an area known for its multiple buffet-style locations, Bill’s always seemed to stand about all the rest, including the more renowned Win Schuler establishments. Perhaps the marvelous service had much to do with it. In addition, nobody ever left after a meal there still feeling the slightest bit hungry.
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA – LAWRY’S THE PRIME RIB
Run by the makers of Lawry’s Salt for meat-flavor enhancement, this restaurant rates among the most unique in our memory, the reason being that it offered a single entrée only. The waitress would hand you no menu, but merely ask how you would like your prime rib of beef cooked – from rare up to well done. You’d never regret having been there, unless you happened to be a sworn vegetarian. The place would also catch the interest of the movie-star gawking types, because they’d be apt to see a few at other tables.
NEW YORK CITY – KEEN’S ENGLISH CHOP HOUSE
Keen’s may be more famous for its key atmospheric feature than its bill-of-fare, but you’re still bound to find the English mutton chop specialty quite satisfying. The big extra is the ability to enjoy a relaxing smoke on your private old-fashioned clay pipe following the meal. We dare not go back, though, having licked the tobacco habit long ago.
NEW YORK CITY – MAMA LEONIE’S
True, Gotham has many more fantastically-arrayed bistros than Leonie’s, but what remains most vividly in memory is the wide range of tasty food served, usually as supplements to the meal as ordered. This spot merits patronization for the culinary variety alone.
PARIS, FRANCE – LE TOKIANA
Most likely, few readers have ever been to this location, or even heard the name mentioned. Strictly a family eating place, and tucked away in a remote city neighborhood, even the taxi driver may have trouble finding it. If you do succeed in getting there, you won’t forget the meal. Make certain to order crepes flambees at dessert time, even if you’re already stuffed to the gills. The restaurant’s limited publicity stresses that it offers Basque food, whatever message that conveys.
ROME, ITALY – HARRY’S BAR
This very fine restaurant mustn’t be confused with the famous Paris bar bearing the same name, and occupied liberally by ladies of the night at any time. Our Harry’s lies at the very end of Rome’s widely-known Via Veneto, just before the entrance to the Villa Borghese, a public park. Perhaps the memory of a wonderful dinner was amplified by our charming guest companion.
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